


fingerprints unfaded

by CosmoKid



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Childhood Trauma, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Post-Episode: s01e05 Don't Speak, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:15:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23453098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CosmoKid/pseuds/CosmoKid
Summary: It’s not like he hasn’t heard Max yell before. They grew up together, at least the best they could with Michael being shipped from ill-fitting foster home to illegitimate nunnery to probably actually illegal foster family. And of course, there was always disapproving looks the senior Evans would give him when he stayed for dinner. Max has yelled at Michael, Michael has yelled at Max. They’re brothers, it’s what they do. There’s no reason why this is different.Except it is.Except every time Michael thinks about it, his heart starts pounding and he can feel tears prick at his eyes. His shoulders tighten and his chest aches and it feels like he’s choking when he even thinks about the way Max has raised his voice, when he’d yelled for the keys and when he’d pushed Michael against the van.In which Max's outburst brings back bad memories for Michael and Alex is there to comfort him
Relationships: Michael Guerin/Alex Manes
Comments: 6
Kudos: 143





	fingerprints unfaded

**Author's Note:**

> so like i was rewatching this episode and when max was yelling, it genuinely scared me because like trauma and I just kinda thought like if michael had grown up in foster care, hed probably have a reaction similar to what i had and then this happened.
> 
> also like i kinda read michael as having adhd and thats probably been transferred into this without meaning to. my adhd has never let me shut the fuck up about adhd.

He spends the night with Isobel, holding her as she lets out choked sobs and asks questions he can’t answer. He doesn’t know why she did what she did ten years ago and he’s been asking the same questions every year since. He gave up trying to find the answers. He’s not sure there are any to find. 

Isobel’s a mess, the composed picture-perfect sister he knows so well, drained away to reveal the scared girl she is inside. She’s shaking, holding onto Michael like he’s all she has, holding onto him like he’s a jagged branch sticking out of the ground as a tsunami tries to drag her away. It’s been a long time since she’s held onto him like this. 

But then, he _is_ all that she has now. Noah’s gone, Max is gone and well, Isobel has never needed anyone outside of the three of them. He’s not sure she ever really needed Noah, at least not as much as Noah needed her. 

Except maybe she did. 

He can count the number of times Isobel has cried in front of him on one hand and she’s been crying over Noah for hours now. Max too, obviously. He imagines that she’s probably cried in front of Max a lot more than she has Michael.

He always was the third wheel among them. 

Still, she needs him now and that’s all that matters. He can push away the jealousy and envy that thrums under his skin each day and ignore the way his heart is beating at a mile minute anytime he thinks of Max and the way he’d yelled at them. 

It’s not like he hasn’t heard Max yell before. They grew up together, at least the best they could with Michael being shipped from ill-fitting foster home to illegitimate nunnery to probably actually illegal foster family. And of course, there was always disapproving looks the senior Evans would give him when he stayed for dinner. Max has yelled at Michael, Michael has yelled at Max. They’re brothers, it’s what they do. There’s no reason why this is different.

Except it is.

Except every time Michael thinks about it, his heart starts pounding and he can feel tears prick at his eyes. His shoulders tighten and his chest aches and it feels like he’s choking when he even thinks about the way Max has raised his voice, when he’d yelled for the keys and when he’d pushed Michael against the van. 

It shouldn’t hurt anymore. In the past few hours, he’s chugged enough acetone to never feel pain again, but it _hurts_. It hurts in a way he can’t pinpoint. It’s a hurt that feels like it will never go away. Another scrap for the trauma box, another memory to shove to the bottom of his psyche and never think on again. It’s how he’s coped; it’s _how he copes_.

But this memory doesn’t want to be shoved down. It rears its ugly head like a mutated groundhog that comes back to haunt you every year. Any moment of silence between Isobel’s sobs is a moment where he can hear Max yelling at him and suddenly he’s nine years old again and there’s an angry, drunk foster Dad who doesn’t want Michael here any more than Michael wants to be here and he wants to make sure Michael knows that and anytime he tries to open his mouth, to defend himself, there’s a fist coming towards him. Or an open hand. Or a steel-toed boot. Or a broken bottle or a plate or a hammer or whatever was on hand when Michael even dared to exist.

Tears are pricking at his eyes, a sob waiting to be unleashed, but he can’t let it out. He can’t be that vulnerable little kid right now, the one who just wanted to be loved. He needs to be there for Isobel. She needs him more than he needs her tonight. 

It’s a change and it’s not one he’s ready for. He’s never been the one for comfort or compassion, he’s not the one to offer a shoulder to cry on. He’s the one you can rely on for snarky comments and self-depreciation. He’s broken, but he’s funny and you can rely on him to make you laugh, whether it’s with him or at him is your choice.

What he isn’t is what Isobel needs now. 

She needs the caring brother, the one who knows what to say and when to hug someone. Not the one who still doesn’t know when it’s okay to touch people. The one who’s been touch-starved since he woke up in a pod in the middle of the desert. The one who still associates touch with pain. 

_The one who doesn’t have a fucking clue what to do._

So he hugs her, murmurs what feels like pre-written words of comfort into her hair, trying to keep his voice steady and calm and tries to exist for her. He doubts it’s what she needs, but it’s all that he knows how to give. 

She passes out around half five in the morning, curling up on his bed with her arms clutching at a blanket he hasn’t washed in weeks. There are goosebumps lining her arms and she looks so much smaller like this. Like she’s a kid again. 

The moments he takes to stare at her feel essential, the softness of it calming his ever-racing heartbeat. He breathes out and reaches over to brush his hair out of her face.

She’s safe. He knows where she is and after all this chaos, she’ll probably sleep for a day. She’ll be safe and that’s what he needs to know before he prepares to open the door to his emotions. 

It’ll be a flood of pain; it always it. It’s always been all or nothing with him and most of the time, it’s been nothing.

He writes a poor excuse for a note for Isobel to read in the case that she wakes up before he’s back, making some shit up about needing to run an errand for work even though he barely shows up unless he needs cash, and grabs a jacket. He thinks briefly about the stash of acetone in his closet and using it to numb the pain but thinks better of it. Isobel will probably need it more than him when she wakes up. He takes one of the many trucks in the yard and just drives. 

His knuckles begin to whiten as he grips the steering wheel with his good hand tighter and tighter, and puts his foot down on the peddle a little too hard. It hurts but in a good way. The sharp sting of pain in his feet something different to the ache in his chest. He plays pretend that the way his heart is pounding is due to anger and not fear. 

It’s the only thing that gets him far enough away from any and all civilization that no one will notice if the truck goes flying. He knows his telekinesis is unpredictable right now.

The brakes screech when he pulls off the road, leaving a harsh trail in the dirt. 

He does try to open the door with his hand, but his mind has a different idea and it nearly goes flying off the car before he can even raise his hand. He stumbles out, hitting the grounder harder and quicker than he planned to. 

For a few moments, he just breathes. He lets himself exist for a few seconds, his mind floating in-between states of anger and fear and trauma.

And then, he screams. 

He lets out every bit of pain he was holding back, slamming his hands on the ground. He screams until his throat is raw and scratchy, until his voice is hoarse, the noise being enough to silence his mind.

The silence doesn’t last. It never does.

By the time he’s curled up into a ball and let the sobs out, his mind is already whirring with memories. Memories of broken homes and bottles on the floor. Memories of being the scrawny kid everyone could pick on, the one who was always last to the table, the one who survived on scraps. Memories of being different, of being too much to handle. Memories of older kids who liked to leave bruises and scratches all over his body. Memories of the kids who laughed when he cried. 

A broken whine escapes him as some of the worst kids float across his memories, a cruel smile and dark eyes settling in place. It feels as real as all those years had. He’s tried and failed to scratch away at the memory of Ryan Todd so many times he gave up counting. It’s never worked. Sometimes Michael swears he can still feel Ryan’s hand in his hair as he’d pushed him down. He can still feel the weight and the pressure when Ryan had held him down just by putting a single foot on his back. The fear that ran through him when he heard Ryan’s voice hasn’t left; his blood still runs cold when he remembers him.

Dragging a desperate hand through the knots in his hair, he lets out a small cry and shakes his head. He can’t think about this, not now. He can’t do _this_. Now is the worst time for a breakdown. Isobel needs him.

But when he tries to push the memories of the other kids away, there’s more waiting to overload him. Memories of foster parents who didn’t care and foster parents who cared too much. The ones he doesn’t want to ever think about again, the ones who’d hold his hand a little tight and the ones who’d have Michael sit on their lap so they could brush his hair. The ones who’d come into his room at night, whiskey on their breath as they whispered sweet nothings in his ear, followed by threats of what would happen if anyone found out. The ones Michael gravitated towards, wanting to be loved and touched and not knowing about the monsters that lurk in the foster system. 

He didn’t know it was wrong and he didn’t know he could fight back. He just wanted to be loved by someone, by anyone. 

At some point, he manages to crawl into the back of the truck that he’d tossed a few yards down the road at some point during his breakdown. There’s nothing in it besides an old towel that serves a poor excuse of a blanket as he tries to pull himself together.

Isobel needs him right now and she doesn’t need to know that Max yelling at them triggered an episode. Episodes his siblings don’t even know about. He doesn’t know how to explain it to them, not after years of keeping it all to himself. Considering it all, they had happy childhoods, had a home to go back to and warm food on the table and parents who were there to love him. Parents who _wanted_ them there. He didn’t get that and he doesn’t know how to make them understand how much it hurts even years after he’d escaped the foster system.

They were hugged when they cried. There was someone there to wipe away the tears and tell them that it’ll all be okay, someone to smooth over their hair and hold them close. He didn’t get hugged. 

There was no love for him, not the way there was for them, and he doesn’t know how he’d even begin to explain to them what it’s like to ask yourself why you’re not worthy of love, why no one in this goddamn world wants you. What it’s like to feel like a burden on everyone, to wonder if it would be easier to just remove yourself from the equation. 

He takes a deep breath, clenches his eyes and wills away the memories, trying to physically push away the faint scent of beer and the resonant sound of a bottle breaking and the warm ghost of blood dripping down his face. 

He needs it to go away, all of it. It has to. He pushes at the memories and focusses everything he has into it until there’s nothing he can feel but pain. It’s hot and white and it makes him want to scratch at his skin until there’s nothing left. So far gone into his own mind that he doesn’t even hear another car pull up or someone calling his name.

He’s oblivious to everything besides himself until there’s a warm hand on his arm and he’s flinching back, eyes wide open.

“Michael,” the person says and he blinks, dried tears on his cheeks. He can barely believe his own eyes when he manages to get them to focus.

Dragging a hand through his ragged hair, he swallows, “Alex?”

“Michael,” Alex replies, his voice full of concern. He flinches again, involuntary. He doesn’t want pity or concern, doesn’t like what comes after it. “Michael, what’s… what happened? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he bites out, the rehearsed response coming out a little less than convincing like everything does when Alex is around. It’s just him, he screws Michael up.

Alex gives him a look that tells him that he doesn’t believe that answer one bit and just to hammer it home, he opens his mouth, “You’re crying in the middle of the desert in a truck I’m pretty sure isn’t yours with what looks like a trauma blanket around your shoulders and you look like you haven’t slept in days. Pretty sure you’re the furthest from fine you can be, Guerin.”

He bites back a chuckle at Alex’s observation, focussing on the bitterness behind his teeth rather than ache in his chest. “And why do you care?”

“Michael-” Alex starts, but Michael cuts him off.

“So I’m Michael now, am I?” he asks, his voice harsher than he expects. He lets out a laugh that comes out more as a choked-out breath. “What happened to ‘we can’t do this anymore, Guerin’? ‘No one can know we’re together, Guerin’? ‘You’re a criminal, Guerin’? Since when do _you_ actually care about me?”

The last few words sound suspiciously like he’s sobbing and Alex has the decency to look ashamed, giving him more decency than anyone normally does. Tears are threatening at the corners of his eyes again when he thinks about that and he looks away, dragging a rough hand across his face to wipe them away.

He thought he was fucking done with this, with this damn breakdown. Isn’t it enough that he’s screamed himself hoarse and cried until his eyes hurt? That his fucked-up brain dragged up all the dark memories he’d hidden under the floor? Isn’t this pain enough? What does he fucking have to do to get over it? He doesn’t have much left to give.

“I’m sorry,” Alex says, his voice soft and quiet. Michael blinks and turns back to look at him, waiting for the punchline, waiting for Alex to laugh at him or to hurt him. He doesn’t. He just hovers, looking like he’s waiting for permission for something.

Swallowing, he opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. He doesn’t know what to say. It’s not like he’s had to respond to many apologies in his life. People don’t normally notice when they treat him like shit and when they do, it’s not like they care. 

Alex watches him carefully and Michael thinks maybe he can see understanding in his eyes. “I shouldn’t have said those things to you.”

The breath catches in his throat, the admission catching him off guard. He lets out a breath and nods, “No, you shouldn’t have, but-” He pauses to shrug lazily and wave his hand around, “ _This?_ This wasn’t your fault. Don’t worry, you didn’t cause this mess.”

He thinks maybe that it will make Alex look less concerned. It doesn’t. 

“So we’re admitting it’s a thing now?” Alex asks and his voice is just on the edge of casual. 

“You caught me,” he says, trying to lighten his voice back to his normal witty self who covers up his crack with macho cowboy swagger. “Red-handed. You gonna arrest me for having a breakdown, private?”

Alex pinches the bridge of his nose, but he doesn’t take the bait. Instead, he takes a step closer and Michael only then notices how far he’d retreated when Michael had flinched. 

It’s odd. He’s not used to people respecting his personal space. Hell, he’s not used to people respecting him, period. Part of it is his fault with the persona he plays, but it still hurts. Each small disrespect like a dagger to whatever is left of his heart.

Alex surprises him, once again, by asking, “You wanna talk about it?”

Michael gives him a disbelieving look before he asks, “You wanna sit here and listen to me whine about how unfair my life is?”

“I’m not sitting,” Alex points out and well, he’s not wrong. “And I really doubt you’re the type to whine about how unfair his life is.”

“You wanna sit?” he asks, shuffling over so there’s enough room for Alex to sit in the back of the truck alongside him. He pulls his knees up to his chest as Alex hesitates before giving in and taking a seat next to him. 

There are a few inches of space between them and Michael knows it’s deliberate.

“So,” Alex starts and Michael has to stop himself from flinching at the surprise he feels at how gentle Alex’s voice is. _Shit_ , he’s real fucked up. “You wanna talk about what led to you driving into the middle of the desert to cry?”

He lets out a laugh, regretting it as he does. “I didn’t just cry, I did some screaming too.”

“Wonderful,” Alex says in a deadpan voice. “You wanna talk about what led to you driving into the middle of the desert to cry _and_ scream?”

“It’s nothing,” he says before he even thinks and Alex just gives him that look again. He sighs and takes a deep breath. “We uh we got in a fight, me, Max and Izzy, and uh, Max yelled… and he uh, he pushed me against the truck since he was angry and it just, I guess it brought memories back, you know? Nothing good comes out of a guy bigger than you yelling, especially when they’re pushing you about and uh, yeah, I guess I was just, it was uh… it was like I was a kid again, you know? A kid who didn’t, a kid who uh, a kid-”

“A kid who didn’t know how to fight back, didn’t know he could fight back,” Alex finishes the sentence for him and he nods, secretly glad Alex cut him off. “And since you’d gotten into a fight with Isobel and Max, you couldn’t talk to them so you came here to let it out.”

He shakes his head and Alex raises an eyebrow, offering him the chance to elaborate. He lets his legs fall down and looks down at his good hand, “Me and Izzy are good, it’s just… they don’t understand. They were happy, you know?”

“Yeah,” Alex says, his voice sounding a little pained, “I know.”

Michael nods, his throat feeling more open, the ache in his chest lessening just a little. Of course, Alex knows. Michael is living proof of what Alex’s Dad is capable of. The thought of it shouldn’t comfort him, but there’s something so nice in being with someone who gets it, someone who understands. 

“I just, I don’t know how to explain to them that my first instinct to someone raising their voice is to make myself as small as possible and hope they forget I exist,” he says, the words tumbling out of his mouth. Alex nods again and Michael knows that he understands. “Like they know that the foster system wasn’t exactly nice to live in, but I’ve never, I’ve never told them the specifics. I’ve never told anyone.”

“You have to have lived it to understand it,” Alex murmurs and he nods. 

“You can read every book and every paper about the effects of abuse and trauma, but you don’t have a fucking clue unless you’ve lived it.”

He doesn’t trip on the word abuse. For the first time in his life, he doesn’t trip on the word and that alone is enough to make him cry again, the tears flooding out alongside the sadness and the trauma and the memories and the sheer terror he felt. He spent his childhood in a constant state of fear and suddenly he’s there again.

But then Alex is there, his strong arms wrapping around him, holding him the way Michael had held Isobel a couple of hours ago. He doesn’t think twice about pressing his face into Alex’s shoulder, trying to quieten his sobs as his whole body shakes.

And Alex just holds him, his presence steady.

He doesn’t know how long they sit there like that, long after Michael’s ran out of tears to cry. He lifts his head up and speaks in a croaky voice, “I got snot on your shirt.” 

It coaxes a soft laugh out of Alex, “Pretty sure that’s the last thing on my mind right now.”

“It’s a nice shirt,” Michael protests weakly, having not paid a single iota of attention to the shirt Alex is wearing. At least now that he’s looking at it, he can say it is, in fact, a nice shirt. Then again, all shirts look nice when Alex is wearing them.

“Michael,” Alex says and he sounds at least a little amused, but he sobers up quickly, “I should have asked if it was okay before I hugged you, I’m sorry.”

He raises both eyebrows as he stares at Alex, “Dude, I needed that a lot more than I would have been willing to ask for.”

Alex nods, “It’s hard to ask for what you need when you grow up thinking your existence is a burden and that you’re-”

It’s Michael’s turn to finish the sentence this time, “Impossible to love.”

“Yeah,” Alex says and lets out a small chuckle. Michael nods and leans impossibly closer to Alex.

“I don’t normally talk about this kind of thing,” he admits in a quiet voice, pushing forward with his words before he stops himself. “I try not to think about it. I repress it and I don’t tell anyone, but with you, it’s just, it all comes out. I don’t know what you do to me, Manes, you make me want to be vulnerable and I don’t know how to handle that so I just, I pretend to be that person who doesn’t care about anything and it’s just, it’s not fair to you because I do care, I care so much it hurts and I just… I care and I, I feel cared for and I’m just not used to it.”

Alex is silent for a while after all those words fall out of his mouth, but Michael is too tired to be nervous about it. More than anything, he just wants to be here with Alex, to just exist for no purpose, just for a while.

“You do the same to me,” Alex murmurs after a few moments, his arms tightening around Michael who really isn’t about to complain about it. “But I’m, I’m really glad that you can talk to me about these things because it’s important to talk about it.”

“That come from a military therapist?” he asks, the snarky comment coming out before he can stop it. Alex rolls his eyes, but it doesn’t feel cruel like it normally is. He softens. “Thank you… for this. I really needed it.”

“You don’t have to thank me for that,” Alex murmurs and Michael rolls his eyes this time.

“Like you wouldn’t do the same if it was the other way round.”

“Yeah because I’m the textbook example of a healthy, functioning adult,” Alex drawls and Michael grins, pressing his face into Alex’s shoulder again. “I care about you, Michael, that doesn’t just go away because my Dad got into my head again and made me feel like I had to hide away like I did when I was a kid.”

“Your Dad’s a dick,” Michael says, eloquent as ever, and Alex laughs, loud and bright. 

“Your brother’s kind of a dick,” Alex replies and Michael opens his mouth to protest and closes it again promptly, realizing he doesn’t have any defense. “I don’t want to force you to do anything, but if his yelling can trigger a breakdown in you, maybe he should know.”

He shakes his head, “He wouldn’t understand it. He’d blame himself and be all mopey and then he’d tried to take on all my pain and say that it’s his pain too and I get that he wants to help, but holy shit, it’s fucking annoying. Like it’s _my_ trauma, Max, stop trying to take it away from me.”

“Yeah, your brother’s a dick,” Alex concludes and Michael grins despite himself. “I’d offer to talk to him for you, but I think that’s the last thing any of us want.”

“I don’t even want to think about how he’d react to that,” he says, shaking his head again. “I’ll talk to him, both of them, I need to. It’s time we all tell the truth to the people we love.”

Alex smiles, looking at Michael with what feels like fondness. “If that’s true, then I think the two of us need to have a much longer conversation. I’m tired of running away from you as if I don’t feel anything for you.”

Michael blinks and then smiles, not sure he can take on any more surprises today. “For the record, I’m tired of that too.”

“I’m sorry,” Alex says and shushes Michael before he’s even managed to open his mouth to argue. “I know it hurt you and it’s my fault so I’m sorry and you are not allowed to tell me that I shouldn’t apologize for that.”

“You giving me orders now, private?” 

Alex sighs, but he’s still smiling. “If it helps us get somewhere other than whatever we’ve been, I’ll give you anything you want.”

It takes everything in him not to ask _really?_ like an excited kid being told he’s going to Disney World because he hasn’t realized he’s about to be the punchline in a cruel joke.

But it doesn’t feel like a cruel joke, there’s no impending fear when he looks up at Alex. He believes him and maybe he’s being foolish but he does.

“Does that mean you’ll let me thank you for making me feel better?” he asks, a sly grin on his face. Alex huffs. “Okay, but seriously, I was planning on coming out to the desert and scream or whatever. Honestly, I don’t know what I was thinking, but _this_ is better than whatever that would have been.”

“Still not letting you thank me for it,” Alex tells him, “You deserve to feel okay. You deserve to have someone there to hold you when it feels like the world is crashing down around you. And really, you deserve therapy because you have a lot to deal with.”

He laughs, “Yeah, I should really do that.”

“Instead of driving into the middle of the desert to cry?”

“And scream.”

“ _And_ scream?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I’ll look into it _and_ talk to my siblings _and_ have a long conversation with you in case you’ve forgotten.”

“Trust me, I’m never going to forget it,” Alex tells him and Michael does.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! <3
> 
> come cry with me on [tumblr](https://listen-to-the-inner-walrus.tumblr.com/)  
> 


End file.
